In Pakistan, seeking justice is often not a matter of law alone, but of language. From the streets of Lahore to the Supreme Court, the act of redress—of pleading for rights, relief, or recognition—is deeply linguistic. Petitions and protests, though different in form, both rely on rhetorical strategies that attempt to persuade, shame, or compel authority. At the heart of this lies a vernacular of pleading: a discourse of dispossession.
The official petition—whether to a court, bureaucracy, or ministry—is couched in formal, deferential, and often archaic language. The petitioner becomes “humble,” the appeal is “most respectfully submitted,” and the tone is steeped in supplication rather than demand. Such phrasing reflects a deep asymmetry of power: the language of rights is bent into the posture of mercy. Grammar bows before hierarchy.
Meanwhile, the protest chant offers a more visceral rhetoric. It draws from poetry, slogans, and oral traditions, encoding anger, hope, and collective urgency. Phrases like “Hum kya chahtay? Azadi!” or “Roti, kapra aur makaan” distill complex demands into rhythmic mantras. These chants are not just calls—they are linguistic confrontations that seek to rupture the silence of indifference.
Yet both petitions and protests are shaped by limits. The bureaucratic gatekeeping of official language excludes those without legal literacy, while protest speech is often criminalized under vague laws such as sedition or public nuisance. In both cases, linguistic legibility becomes a prerequisite for recognition—those who cannot speak the sanctioned idioms of grievance are rendered unintelligible to the state.
Religious language frequently enters this arena, invoking God, justice, and divine accountability. Petitioners may appeal to Islamic principles to bolster their cause, especially in the absence of effective secular remedies. Protestors, too, may draw upon spiritual vocabulary to reframe their struggle as not just political, but moral and eternal.
The media plays an interpretive role here, translating protest and petition into narratives digestible for broader publics. But in doing so, it also frames whose grievances are legitimate and whose are threatening. The farmer’s march may be labeled a “mob,” the student’s protest a “security risk,” while elite legal petitions are hailed as democratic courage.
Despite these structural constraints, the rhetoric of redress has carved powerful spaces of visibility. Women’s marches have redefined public speech, Baloch families have personalized disappearance into a language of grief, and student groups have revived political idioms long repressed. These voices demonstrate that even pleading—when repeated, poetic, and public—can become protest.
Language, then, is not merely the medium of redress—it is the site of struggle itself. In a country where silence often protects power, the courage to speak, write, chant, or petition becomes a radical act. What is sought in redress is not just justice, but acknowledgment—a state that listens not only to the laws it writes, but to the voices it would rather not hear.
